Our Best Yesterdays Are Now Foul Piles

Poetry Involves The Mysteries Of The Irrational Perceived Through Rational Words.

The Summer Night Was Starless And Stirless, With Distant Spasms Of Silent Lightning.

I Am Not, And Never Was, And Never Could Have Been, A Brutal Scoundrel.

While The Scientist Sees Everything That Happens In One Point Of Space, The Poet Feels Everything That Happens In One Point Of Time.

We All Have Such Fateful Objects -- It May Be A Recurrent Landscape In One Case, A Number In Another -- Carefully Chosen By The Gods To Attract Events Of Specific Significance For Us: Here Shall John Always Stumble; There Shall Jane's Heart Always Break.